Radio, Radio

In the middle of every field,

obscured from the side by grass

or cornhusks, is a clearing where

she works burying swans alive

into the black earth. She only

buries their bodies, their wings.

She packs the dirt tight around

their noodle necks & they shake

like long eyelashes in a hurricane.

She makes me feed them by hand

twice a day for one full year: grain,

bits of chopped fish. Then she

takes me to the tin toolshed.

Again she shows me the world

inside her silver transistor radio.

She hands me the scythe.